


Filthy, Necessary

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Spicyshimmy, Anders and Hawke in the tub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filthy, Necessary

It all started with that kiss, the one that was so imperfect, yet so properly suited to them that it evolved from physical into metaphor. It was messy and desperate, filled with promise and tongue, but most of all, it  _needed_  to happen. A lot of other things needed to happen too.

Varric didn’t get the whole story about that night, it was one of the few times where the text couldn’t have matched the reality less. Anders did arrive, and it was a long, sleepless night for the best possible reasons, but he missed the most important thing—the bath.   
  
Truthfully, half of the reason that Hawke had a washtub ready with warm water when Anders arrived was that he wasn’t keen on the idea of letting Anders, who spent his days in the sewers, wrist deep in injured people, into a nice, clean bed. But the other half, the more important one? Hawke guessed, correctly, that Anders had gone far too long without someone doing something just for his benefit.   
  
It was cold when Anders arrived, a wind whipping around Hightown like it was on a mission, tearing at his robes like it wanted a chance to get them off before Hawke could. The door opened to a shivering, nervous smile, until Hawke pulled him inside for another try at that kiss. This time it was scruff and chilly lips, clutching hands and seeking tongue, pulling away only to gasp for air and go back for more. It was still perfectly imperfect, but it was ever an example of them; the refugee and the apostate, the warden and the warrior, both needy and rash.

Anders was understandably embarrassed when Hawke dragged him to the washtub. There was nothing quite like having your new lover insinuate that you were too filthy to touch. But Hawke was tender; he helped him with his boots, slid off the jacket and pauldrons, took his time with the buckles, unwound the bandages and ran rough, callused hands down slim sides with a sort of gentle, possessive stroke of palms and thumbs. Then he untied that troublesome leather cord, just so he could run fingers reverently through honey-colored hair that would be lovely and soft if it only had a good wash.

The water cooled quickly, but there are upsides bathing a mage. As soon as he got chilly, Anders just wiggled his fingers and the temperature of the water rose to a perfect, steamy warm. Hawke was all hands, at first rolling up his sleeves, then just peeling off the superfluous, fine top to press chest to back while lathering Anders up as he protested. There was a lot of  _I can do that myself_ , and  _I don’t really need help for this_ , until Hawke said the magic words:  _but I want to_ , and with characteristic determination, set out to prove that warriors have good, strong hands.

Hawke spent half the time just massaging the tension out of Anders’ neck and shoulders until he relaxed enough to almost doze off. To stave off sleep, he grabbed Hawke and tugged him into the tub, pants and smalls and all, to prove that sometimes skinny, exhausted apostates had strong hands too. Water poured over the sides, soaking the ground, soaking the cast off clothing, and right then nothing could be better than being wet and together.   
  
The kisses were even better then, full of warmth, full of soft, damp hair, of being held by arms and tub, of pressing against cock and chest, both relaxed and urgent, like all they needed was a little soap and water to smooth it out. They could be fools together, moisture dripping from beard and nose, suds in an eye that needed gentle rinsing out, but they could also be right. They fit perfectly, the right height, the right length, Anders’ hands down Hawke’s trousers, Hawke’s in Anders’ hair, rocking when every minor movement sent them sloshing on their own, personal tide. Hawke promising that the whole  _lying awake and aching_ thing never needed to happen again, not while he was around, Anders tilting his head for lips on his neck and returning them to forehead, cheek and nose.

They soaked until their skin tightened, until the urgency of lust and affection forced them out of the tub and Hawke out of his soaked clothing, then stumbling into bed, still damp and overheated, only to light up from the burn of tongue and teeth, of grinding and groping, until there was no more aching, only dizzy, exhausted satisfaction.   
  
To think that had all started with one awkward but passionate, tooth-knocking, inappropriately timed kiss.


End file.
